


Perce

by alrightginger



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Oliver is out of bed again, and Percy is done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alrightginger/pseuds/alrightginger
Summary: Oliver wants to know what he has to do in order to earn the right to call Percy by a nickname. Snogging him, apparently, is the answer.
Relationships: Percy Weasley/Oliver Wood
Comments: 11
Kudos: 271





	Perce

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the prompt: “isn’t this supposed to be where you kiss me?” for jily or honestly if you’re feeling crazy percy x oliver :)

Oliver is out of bed. 

Which in itself isn’t all that unusual. Percy has caught Oliver out of bed several times before, usually always at the Quidditch Pitch. 

(Always at the Quidditch Pitch.)

The problem is that Percy has a lot more trouble chastising Oliver than he does the other students who are roaming around after curfew.

He just can’t seem to do it.

He looks at Oliver and his throat runs dry and closes in on him. He looks at Oliver and he doesn’t _want_ to scold him. 

He wants….

It’s a predicament he doesn’t want to think too deeply about. 

He’s afraid of what he’ll find if he looks too closely. 

Percy shivers, pulling his cloak around him tighter. It’s the cold making him have such a reaction, he tells himself. Not that fact that he’s found Oliver down by the pitch again and he’s glistening with sweat. Not the fact that his sleeves are rolled up, and Percy can see all the muscles in his arms move as he bats a Bludger away.

Percy eyes Oliver’s biceps with the same amount of nerves as he does the rogue Bludger that races into the night air.

“What are you doing?” Percy calls, and there’s no threat in his tone. 

Oliver must find this amusing, because he looks up at him and grins. It’s lopsided and does awful things to Percy.

“Practicing,” he answers simply. “We’ve got a big match later this week.”

Percy rolls his eyes. Quidditch is all Oliver ever thinks about, which is a shame. Sometimes Percy wishes that he thought about other things. Sometimes he wishes that the other boy thought about him just as much as he does Quidditch.

Nothing is more important to Oliver then Quiddtich though, and Percy feels slightly ridiculous for wishing that he could be in the other boy’s peripheral vision for once. 

That he could be _seen._

“You’re going to make yourself sick from lack of sleep,” Percy points out. “Or from being in the cold. And then you’ll end up losing because you can’t even play.”

Oliver winks at him, and Percy’s face flames. “I don’t get sick, Perce.” 

“Don’t call me that,” Percy grumbles, toeing at a bit of loose grass with his slipper. “You’re not allowed.”

“Why not?” 

“We’re not close enough for you to call me that,” Percy says. “Plus, my brothers always call me Perc and they always mean it condescendingly.”

Oliver frowns, head tilted. “Well, I don’t.” 

“Everyone does.”

Percy knows that he’s pouting. That he’s acting like a child. He’s out of bed when he desperately wants to just _sleep_ after a long day, and he’s forced to try to rein in the one person he can’t. 

So he pouts.

He’s tired. He’s tired of always having to be the one to enforce the rules, and then having people like his family — _his own family —_ get mad at him for just doing his job. 

For doing what he’s asked.

For doing what he’s supposed to do. 

He desperately wants a break sometimes. 

There’s movement in front of him, and suddenly Oliver’s boots are lined up in front of Percy’s bedroom slippers. He’s moved closer while Percy had been brooding, apparently, and when he looks up, Percy’s lips part in surprise. Oliver is leaning down towards him, hands tucked causally into the pockets of his trousers. 

He’s smirking. 

It’s breathtaking. 

“What do I have to do to earn the right to call you Perce?” 

Percy can’t speak. His voice just… _won’t work._ No one has ever asked him what they need to do in order to earn something from him. A privilege. Like a nickname.

No one has ever taken the time to consider that he may be worth a little bit of effort to get underneath his layers. No one has ever wanted that sort of thing from him. 

He doesn’t know what to say.

“Oh, dear,” Oliver chides. His eyes are wide with mirth. “I’ve left you speechless.” 

His voice is teasing, and it short circuits Percy’s brain. It’s the only reason he can think of for asking what he does next.

“Isn’t this supposed to be where you kiss me?”

Percy asks the question with a mixture of nerves and anticipation. He asks it without ever really considering what he’s asking in the first place, which is so unlike him that he clamps a hand over his mouth. 

Oliver is staring back at him, and all the humor has disappeared from his features. Percy has sent him into shock. 

Great. 

Just _great._

He’s considering running. Fleeing. Just turning around and getting the hell out of here. Where, he doesn’t know. It doesn’t matter, as long as it’s as far away from Oliver as possible. It’s too late to give him a detention anyway, not that he had ever really been planning on it in the first place. 

It’s definitely too late to take back what he said.

His eyes dart towards the castle, subsciously about to take a step back towards it when he’s suddenly caught off guard and pulled forward by a hand on the front of his robes. 

Lips crashing, glasses slightly askew, _completely_ caught off guard. This is how he first kisses Oliver Wood. He’s falling, melting, puddling into the ground, and Oliver takes pity on him. His lips spread into a smirk against Percy’s own, and he wraps an arm around his waist to keep him steady, the other moving to tilt Percy’s jaw just so.

And, _oh_ …

This is nice. 

This new, slightly tilted angle that they’ve created is _so nice._ Percy opens his mouth at the same time Oliver does, whimpering his approval before Oliver swallows it. They’re trading open mouthed kisses, sloppy and rushed, when Percy realizes in the back of his mind that Oliver kisses exactly like he plays Quidditch. 

Reckless, without restraint. 

He kisses him like he plans to win. To dominate.

He kisses Percy until he bruises him. Until Percy is certain that he’s not going to walk away from this unscathed. 

And Percy loves it. Adores it. Never wants it to stop. 

But he runs out of air sooner than he would like, quite certain that Oliver has taken it all from him, and has to pull away.

They’re panting, staring at each other as if they both can’t quite believe what happened. Percy certainly can’t. Never in a million years would he ever dare to dream that someone like _Oliver Wood_ would want _him._

Would _kiss him._

It’s all so unpredictable. 

Oliver regains his composure first, Percy always lagging behind him in so many ways. Percy doesn’t mind as much this time. Not when Oliver’s face breaks out into a grin, broad and boyish. Percy might die from it. 

“So,” Oliver says, smug. Proud. “If I can’t call you Perce, can I at least call you my boyfriend?”


End file.
